


Symbolic

by presidentwarden



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Battle Scenes, Gen, Internal Monologue, Mabari, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:50:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4858625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/presidentwarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I absolutely love the concept of Loghain practically and figuratively acknowledging the end of his ill-fated rule & the start of his role as a Warden. This is about that, and some other Loghain things, too. Memories, mostly.</p><p>- - -</p><p>The mabari comes up to him and nudges his wrist, and he kneels down, giving the hound a rough hug as it licks his face. It’s hard to let oneself steep in the memory of one’s failures with an enthusiastic mabari for company, which he grudgingly acknowledges, standing up again and hauling the dummy back to an upright position with a grunt of effort. “You’re too kind, Calenhad.” He steps back, inspecting the dummies, battered and dented from withstanding the attacks of a seasoned warrior. One will need a few stitches, sawdust leaking steadily from a hole in its side. Any darkspawn adversary would have been dead a hundred times over. He allows himself a faint twinge of pride at his effort, standing tall, lamplight silhouetting him, his shadow wavering with the natural flicker of the lanterns. “I suppose I needn’t lay down my weapons and die just yet.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symbolic

The armor weighs heavy on him with its massive chestpiece and its formidable shoulderplates, all straps and buckles and slabs of thick silverite, stripped off his Orlesian prey as a trophy thirty years before. He has never seen fit to relinquish it before, not since before the turn of the Age, but in this he became a symbol. He wore it when taking command as regent, and wore it when losing command at the Landsmeet. In it, he is a walking relic.

For him, it is not suitable, and never has been; impractical, oversized, ill-fitting. Loghain has forced himself to conform to the image of himself in it, led by the belief that this is how he  _must_ be seen, his duty -- upholding the legacy from Ferelden’s rebellion and their expulsion of their Orlesian masters. In reality, the only result is an awful lot of uncomfortable chafing and a weight on his shoulders that’s far heavier than it need be.

The former general acknowledges the grim analogy to his own rule with a lopsided half-smile, standing before the mirror in the training hall and getting one last look at himself in the River Dane armor before he sheds it for good like a creature renewed in spring. Before now, he’s avoided acknowledging the absurdity of the suit -- not only the size and proportions of it, but the sheer impracticality. He didn’t wear it to Ostagar. Not that that would have changed anything. How could a man fight a battle in this? No wonder he lost the duel.

Outside it’s pitch black, the noises of the outdoors filtering dimly through the slatted walls, but lamplights hung inside the dim building cast flickering shadows and throw light to every corner. It glints off Loghain’s armor, the silverite garish and bright in this dusty, modest hall. Hesitantly, he reaches for a gauntlet glove, unlatching it and tugging it down over his wrist with the same delicate care he might bestow to a fine bracelet or a noblewoman’s cuff. The second one comes off with more force, wrenched off as his confidence grows. They land in the corner atop a stack of sacks, clattering there. One rolls across the dusty floor. A mabari asleep beneath a bench looks up, ears pricked, and sniffs the air, letting out a low whine. Loghain quiets the hound with a newly bared hand held up. “Don’t mind me.”

When the dog has laid its head down again, watching Loghain from alert eyes, he continues. The pauldrons come off first, heavy and cumbersome as they are, and he feels immediately unburdened, rolling his shoulders and straightening his back, enjoying his new freedom from the protective cage of silverite. Then he unbuckles the metal elbow plates, freeing his arms fully, and reaches out to lean forward with his palms against the wall, indulging in a long stretch. Splintery and dusty as the wood is, he doesn’t mind; his hands are rough and calloused from holding reins and sword-grips and shield handles -- battle-worn, the hands of a true Fereldan.

Loghain lets go and straightens up again, overly warm from wearing the armor. Unlatching the kilt of chainmail that hangs beneath the armor at his hips, he lays it across the nearest bench, listening to the faint clatter and clink of the mail as it folds across the plane of wood. Then he seats himself there, feeling more liberated, upper body free from the burden of his own armor. He’s lighter, more agile, more suitable to the role where he belongs. He  _is_  a capable leader, but not alone, not rudderless and guided only by his own ideals at the cost of all else. He’s spent much time pondering this since his recruitment, practically a salvation by the Maker’s benevolent hand in its own right. Not many men get the opportunity for freedom from their own mistakes.

He tugs off one of the armor plates that rest over his knees, with its star pattern and wing motif, and tosses it elsewhere, hearing it land behind him with a metallic thud. The armor is sturdy enough to resist the blow of being cast away. This suit will live on, with or without Loghain it. Perhaps an armor gallery in Ferelden would care to have it, perhaps the Wonders of Thedas museum-shop. The other knee plate follows suit seconds later, then his greaves and boots, giving way to threadbare socks and simple woven trousers. He reaches for a pair of proper Fereldan leather fur-lined boots, tugging them onto his feet and tightening the buckles at the ankle and calf. “This is better.”

The mabari answers with a sympathetic whimper, a keening under its breath and a spark of interest in those intelligent eyes. Loghain is resting with his chin in his hands now, elbows on his knees. Beneath the armor he wears just a simple cloth shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the collar unbuttoned a little bit. Save for his iconic looks he would be indistinguishable from a commoner. Perhaps he still is one beneath it all.

The dog nudges his thigh, its sable coat patterned with a precise row of painted dots and swirls that cling to its short-cropped fur, more adornment than practical warpaint. It wears an elaborate braided collar with inlaid dull spikes, obviously costly, with a finely crafted nametag hanging from its buckle. The Warden spent money on the hound; good choice. Loghain looks at the creature askance, then reaches the tag, turning it over in his fingers to inspect the small text. Then he stifles a chuckle. “So you’re…  _Calenhad,_  are you?”

Calenhad tilts his head to the side, ears up, mouth open in a panting canine grin, and Loghain pats the dog’s head affectionately, rubbing behind its ears. “I suppose I’ll always be fighting side by side by a Theirin, won’t I?” A hint of a nostalgic smile at that, though there’s as much sadness in the expression as anything, dark brows heavy over his pale face. “I can hardly challenge you to a sparring match, my friend.”

The mabari stands up, stumpy tail wagging, and trots over to a storage closet, training dummies stacked haphazardly within. Scraping the door with a large paw, the door swings open creakily, revealing its contents to Loghain. Unsurprising, considering mabaris’ intelligence, but he still raises an eyebrow, impressed, and gets to his feet, almost surprised at the lightness of the task without his armored burden. “Thank you.”

Arranged in little more than a pile, the dummies are dusty and cobwebbed -- unsurprising, for a place whose training hall hasn’t been used in years. The traveling party has taken refuge in a small cozy tavern along one of the lesser-known roads, and the other companions are curled up in the small rooms now, probably fast asleep and dreaming of better, Blight-free times. Loghain always struggles to sleep, but had the sense to secure permission to use this space before the shopkeeper went to bed, in a tidy bit of forethought. He lugs a few of the training dummies out of the closet, freeing the ones wedged together in an untidy stack of stuffed false bodies, and receives assistance from the mabari, whose teeth lightly puncture the leather covering on one of the blade-scarred shapes as he drags it out towards the bench. Loghain follows suit with an armful, setting them up on their heavy stands stacked by the wall, then dragging three assembled dummies to the center of the room -- just about his height, perhaps a little shorter. Their bases are weighted to withstand the force of a warrior’s killing blow. Even then, Loghain has no doubt he can send a dummy crashing to the floor with as much ease as a real opponent. Unencumbered by his armor, he should be formidable. Perhaps tomorrow in the shops, he will look into replacing it all with something more sensible. Surely the Warden has coin to allow for that.

Loghain’s braids fly loose around his face as he hurtles at the first dummy, armed with sword and shield to concentrate the force of his weight into one strike that packs his power into a shield bash, then follows up with a sword plunged up to the hilt into the mannequin’s chest, piercing layers of leather and cloth and sending a fine shower of sawdust over his shirt. He laughs, then gives it an extra shove, sending it wobbling on its hefty base before following up with a series of flurried blows that angle the sword perfectly to pierce through where an enemy’s vital organs would lie. The mabari watches, and gives an encouraging bark.

The sword in his hand is heavy and weighted, but properly so, balanced out by the strength of his own upper body. He tests its heft, passing it from hand to hand, shield’s straps slung over his forearm. Its craftsmanship is without question, furrows carved into either side of the blade to channel the blood of an adversary. Darkspawn blood runs differently, thick and tarry and oozing with the taint, and with each strike that lands against a Blighted adversary, he feels a fraction of the pain of the blow, a cold clutching in his heart and his blood. He’s adapting well, but still, he’ll never be used to the constant caking of darkspawn ichor on his blade, the way it needs to be scrubbed off with equal measures of care and brute force. Now, though, it glints clean, catching the light. He holds it up thoughtfully, grasps it, then shoves it square through the training dummy’s chest, impaling the imaginary enemy with a twist of the wrist. Loghain has not lost his technique.

He spends his effort and his energy assaulting the dummies with a series of strikes, wincing when his strength falters and he only lands a glancing blow, but his shield is still a formidable asset, its scarred and battered surface emblazoned with Gwaren’s draconic heraldry. There is something ironic about that, the way he so proudly bears the image of the creature they will have to slay at the end of all this, but dragons are once again Thedas’s universal constant; unsurprising to face one as an adversary, all things considered. An archdemon is something different, he reminds himself. And yet Gwaren’s evacuation was forced by the Blight, so it is all connected, and he pours the sudden grief from the loss of his titles and his teyrnir and his kings into a crushing blow, driving the training dummy back several inches before one last collision of shield and mannequin sends it crashing to the ground. He stands over it, glistening with sweat and wreathed in self-hate.  _Maric would be disappointed._

The mabari comes up to him and nudges his wrist, and he kneels down, giving the hound a rough hug as it licks his face. It’s hard to let oneself steep in the memory of one’s failures with an enthusiastic mabari for company, which he grudgingly acknowledges, standing up again and hauling the dummy back to an upright position with a grunt of effort. “You’re too kind, Calenhad.” He steps back, inspecting the dummies, battered and dented from withstanding the attacks of a seasoned warrior. One will need a few stitches, sawdust leaking steadily from a hole in its side. Any darkspawn adversary would have been dead a hundred times over. He allows himself a faint twinge of pride at his effort, standing tall, lamplight silhouetting him, his shadow wavering with the natural flicker of the lanterns. “I suppose I needn’t lay down my weapons and die just yet.”

But he has wearied of the sword and shield for a rare moment, so he takes himself back to the training bench and opens up the trunk where the party has stored their weapons for the night. Most of the weapons; one mage will not part with her staff, and the elf does not sleep without his daggers close at hand. The Orlesian has left her bow, though -- a fine weapon, of traditional make, with polished wooden limbs. Ironbark? Sylvanwood? It could be either. It’s inlaid with brass as well, worn from battle but still adding a twist of glamour to the weapon. He lifts it carefully, and finds a quiver of arrows as well, extracting a handful and laying them on the bench. Perhaps it is time to test just how much he has forgotten.

Loghain’s shirt is soaked with sweat by now, and he unbuttons it, shrugging it off his shoulders and pulling his arms free of the sleeves. Even for a man of his age, he is powerful, well-muscled and intimidating. Beneath the lamplight his pale skin has a warm sheen, battle-scarred and taut. Tangled black hair falls about his face, and he brushes it back, untidy braids framing prominent cheekbones and a well-shaped, almost graceful jaw. He lifts the bow, turning it over in his palms, then takes hold of it and properly draws it, nocking the arrow and feeling the tension build through him and through the weapon, arrow pointed at the heart of the cloth figure that serves as his impromptu adversary.

His first arrow lands awry, lodging at the edge of the dummy’s seam that connects chest to torso, but his second hits it square in its sawdust heart, the sharp tip driving through leather into its stuffed innards. Encouraged, Loghain reaches for another arrow, encouraged by his silent spectator, shoulders tense with the power of his effort. It lands right below the second, sinking in deep. He takes a few steps back, shooting at a further range to test himself, then drops to one knee, forcing himself to fire equally between the three dummies and shifting his pose from shot to shot. He looses arrow after arrow, letting them fly free from the magnificently crafted bow one at a time, and within a flash, the cloth figures are littered with feathered shafts, like man-shaped pincushions. It’s been too long since Loghain fought this way, and it brings back memories he’s grateful to have not forgotten.

When the quiver is emptied Loghain lets himself rest, sides heaving, damp and exhausted but looking rather lustrous and magnificent from the effort. He will always be a fearsome warrior, even brought down to the level of common man by his own folly. When he stands up, hands resting on his hips, there is the briefest flicker of the man he once was, the scowling rebel who saved the king. And then he bends down to reverently set down the weapon, and it is gone, replaced by the proper Loghain -- mature, renowned, knowledgeable. Even with a past littered by travesties of his own making, and those of others whose burden he unhesitatingly bears, the man is a Fereldan hero. He has little choice in the matter.

He wipes his brow and neck and back with a cloth from the weapons cache, drying himself off, and catches his breath, drinking greedily from a flagon of water, then letting a handful of it run through his fingers and splash down his bare chest. The mabari whines plaintively, and Loghain kneels down to offer it a drink, pouring into a metal bowl resting by the doorframe. With a bark of thanks, it trots off, lapping up the clear water, and Loghain sets down the flask and dries his hair with the cloth. His braids are ruined; he’ll have to redo them by hand. Ruefully, he unwinds the cord that binds the first one and untangles it with his fingers, letting the loose strands of black hair fall freely about his face. He has no young Anora to help him, no Maric, but he hasn’t for years. He can manage.

When his braids are finished, Loghain looks and feels far more well-collected and proper, fingers winding the thin strands together with surprising dexterity and tying off the end of each with a small length of fresh cord. He tosses his head, letting the hair settle naturally into place, and pulls his shirt back around his shoulders, letting it hang unbuttoned to reveal his chest, dark body hair matted from sweat and the heat of his armor. He quickly runs a hand from collarbone to abdomen, then self-consciously buttons up his shirt, rolling his shoulders to work out a few aches before they can set in too deeply. As an afterthought he plucks the used arrows out of the training dummies, wrenching a few out where they sunk in too deep, and lugs the stands back towards the wall, leaving them close enough to be easily accessible for any other combatants but still out of the way, should this hall have other uses. The innkeeper is a conscientious host, allowing Loghain to practice his combat techniques at three o’clock in the morning. He may as well return the favor of courtesy.

He carefully places the arrows back in the quiver, and the bow back atop the pile of weapons, running a hand along its curved ornamented length before adding his sword and shield to the stack and gently closing the trunk’s heavy lid. It has no lock, but their belongings should be safe until morning, especially in this small out-of-the-way town -- little more than a sleepy roadside village, Chantry-free and placid. Then he gathers up the scattered items of his River Dane armor, placing them all together and depositing the smaller pieces into an unused sack, which he tucks inside the broad chestpiece. It won’t be too much of an extra burden to bring this along on their journey, at least back to Denerim where it can be stored in the Warden cache or sold.

The last piece is his belt, with a map case lovingly fastened to it. Once it might have held a modified map with prospects for expanding Ferelden’s borders. Now, more practically, it contains a slightly worn, carefully inscribed copy of Ferelden proper, with faint lines indicating Warden properties and planned routes. He straps the belt to his hip, securing it in place and comforted by the familiar faint presence, then shifts his weight from one foot to the other, still marveling at the lightness of life without either the burdens of River Dane armor or ruling.

“Come now, Calenhad.” He clicks his tongue to summon the mabari, pushing the door open and letting the dog trot through and lead the way before Loghain follows suit, shutting the door and letting the building’s lanterns quietly light his path. The entry to the inn is right next door, a small wooden door that Loghain pushes open, stooping to let himself through, the mabari hot on his heels. His bedroll is right where he left it, in the corner of the room allocated to the Wardens; they are practically sleeping in piles. Nobody even stirs to acknowledge Loghain’s arrival. The two lady mages are at opposite sides, the bard near the Warden, the Antivan dangerously close to Loghain’s corner but clearly asleep, emitting a light snore with a satisfied grin on his fine elven face.

Loghain picks his way across the room, then crawls into his bedroll, lying facedown with a stack of spare clothes as a lame substitute for a pillow. The mabari lies down nearby to guard him, but there is no need; the man is out like a light within moments, curled up in his blanket to stave off the room’s faint chill. He is satisfied with the night’s training, and with himself. Perhaps tonight he will dream of triumph over Orlais.


End file.
